The Mess
by alyxpoe
Summary: Everyday someone has to go out of their way to ask John why he puts up with his and Sherlock's incredibly cluttered flat.
1. Chapter 1

_**Just some short little nothings that mean everything: I had this idea pop into my head at 3AM so I thought I would share :D  
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_**I am not an etymologist nor do I play one on TV, I'm just making it up based on what I know. This whole thing is just for fun, so please don't beat on me with wet noodles (riding crops, though...he he he!)**_

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**The Mess**

Everyday someone has to go out of their way to ask John why he puts up with his and Sherlock's incredibly cluttered flat.

Once it was a new client who had rudely barged in through the door just as John was straightening up a leaning tower of textbooks; just as the rather large man swept into the room, the whole pile hit the old carpet with a resounding _thud_. The man gave John a rather pitying look then proceeded to gaze through the kitchen door at the consulting detective whose face was pressed up tightly against the microscope on the kitchen table. The man made a rather nasty snorting noise through his nose and placed his meaty hands on his almost-hidden-by-the-spare-tire-around-his-middle- hips and leaned over directly into John's face, seriously overburdening his already too-tight trousers, and said:

"Those are so obviously not _your_ textbooks, so why doesn't the genius clean up after himself? Are you the housewife? _I _wouldn't put up with it, you know." The man's beady little eyes tried in vain to cut through John's self esteem and bring him down to his level.

Before John could even answer the man and tell him that _he_ had indeed been using the textbooks to search for the name of the rare bacteria his partner was currently studying in an effort to save the life of a nine year old boy who was currently in hospital there was a loud growl from the kitchen. Before John could explain that the child had been stabbed by a serial killer caught in the act and that the blade had been impregnated with the bacteria and it was only because of _this mess_ that there was any hope of the little boy living to see a new morning..._before_ any of that, suddenly Sherlock was crowding the much heftier and taller man right back through the door on a long, loud string of deductions about his penchant for cross-dressing and perhaps that is why is wife stole his little black book in the first place? And, no, Sherlock Holmes will _not_ take this case because it does not even rate a one on the scale of boring-to-exciting.

Naturally, Sherlock was not even so gracious as to say "have a nice day." He merely slammed the door with a snort, moved in front of John with a quick kiss to his forehead and gracefully slid right back into his chair. Anyone passing by would never have believed the last five minutes even happened. John re-stacked the books against the wall and grabbed his laptop from the coffee table to quickly begin tapping in the Latin name of the bacteria that was apparently so rare that it did not even show up in any books younger than twenty years.

The next morning brought good news to a set of parents who wept unashamedly at Sherlock's discovery. John stood beside him, beaming and proud, thankful for the stack of old books that lit their way like a candle in the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

On Wednesday morning, a very sleepy John had answered the insistent banging on the front door to be confronted by a weary, stressed-out DI Lestrade. The poor man looked like he was at wit's end and his light blue button-down was so crinkled that John was sure he had not been out of it for at least forty-eight hours. John took a sniff: no possibly make that seventy-two. It never even occurs to John that before five years ago he could not have figured that out so quickly based on some wrinkles and Eu Day Sweaty Man Needs Coffee musk.

"John, I..." Greg starts to say. John just shakes his head to remind him that Mrs. Hudson is probably still sleeping and points up the stairs. He follow the DI up to their flat and into the kitchen. There are beakers, test tubes, the omnipresent microscope and three stacks of papers littering the table. The counters aren't much better; John just pushes a stack to the side and flips on the coffee machine, but not before clicking off the automatic timer button he had set for an hour and a half from now. He reaches up to the cabinet and drags down two mugs, completely forgetting about the house-spider experiment. As he shifts the mugs into his hands, he brushes against the little glass rectangle full of spiders and it crashes to the linoleum: tiny gray spiders and bits of tinkling glass fly everywhere.

John does not think twice before handing Greg both mugs and moving towards the cupboard for the broom and dustpan. He is dumping the dustpan into the trash bin before Greg says a word about it. The DI hands John a mug of black coffee as John re-enters the kitchen, brushing his palms against his trousers.

"Spiders, John? In the kitchen?" Underneath the exhaustion, John can discern not a little bit of wonder and perhaps even some sorrow as to what he believes John _puts up with_.

John clears his voice and prepares to explain the situation: Sherlock is breeding the spiders (which are a crossbreed between two species of spiders regularly found in homes) in an effort to see if they can be used to control the mosquito population in certain parts of Africa. The spiders are quick breeders and non venomous to humans. It was a case originally brought to them by Mycroft, but then, as Sherlock does, he took the ideas and ran with them. So far, a dozen crates of these little hybrid arachnids have been exported to the area and present research shows that the experiment may be a success.

However, just as John starts to explain all of these things, the sound of a gravely just-waking up baritone pipes up behind him. A long, lean body clad only in a sheet leans against John. Greg is a little disconcerted by Sherlock's crazy morning hair and lack of proper clothing, though he stands his ground, thinking it is absolutely _not_ the strangest thing he's ever been exposed to—especially when things concern these two.

"Lestrade, really? You should have solved that case three days ago. If you would have called me sooner, you would know that there is a hidden panel in the sitting room just left of the piano. Look in there and you will find the old key to the streamer trunk hidden in the crawl-space. Inside the truck you will find the skeleton of the lover. She was not kidnapped, nor was she murdered. She crawled in there to wait until her beau arrived to transport her to safety and out of the arms of her abusive fiance. Unfortunately, the boyfriend arrived too late to save her from asphyxiation and upon the discovery of her body, slammed the trunk shut, locked it with the key, locked away the key and fled the country. Seriously?" And without taking a breath, Sherlock pulls against John's shoulders and says "Let's go back to bed John."

John gives the DI a wink and a smile and then turns to follow his partner back to the bedroom. Greg shakes his head, finishes his coffee and slowly trudges back down the stairs. Once he gets to his office, he wraps up the case in twenty minutes and within the hour he is home wrapped in his own sheet, sound asleep for the first time in three days.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Mess **

**Chapter 3: Not Just 221 B**

John opens the door to Mrs. Hudon's flat, knocking on it with his right hand as he enters. There is a muffled cry in the direction of the kitchen that sounds like "She isn't home." That voice that is usually deep, luxurious and makes John think about sex at the most inopportune moments sounds vaguely irritated. John cocks his head to the side and listens to the non-mistakable _tinking_ sounds of metal tools scraping across metal piping.

John enters the kitchen to be greeted with yet another Sherlockian mess. There are pipes and fittings spread out against the linoleum seriously reminiscent of a grisly crime scene where the murderer quite enjoyed hacking his victims to bits. Little puddles of water rest underneath most of the piping. The house is old, so the pipes are not all PVC, some of them are still copper.

Following the path of what John is absolutely sure is destruction of Mrs. Hudson's sink, his eyes rest of the perfect hindquarters of the world's only consulting detective; his head and shoulders deep under the sink behind the doors of the cabinet. Sweat has stained the back of his silky purple button-down, making John wonder for a moment if Sherlock has ever done any work resembling blue-collar at any point in his life. Surely, even he would have changed into one of the ratty old T-shirts he often lounges around in at home.

But, no, there he is, Mr. Posh and Well-dressed, under a sink, hands full of what sounds like a screw driver—not even a battery-powered one, he thinks with wonder. John clears his throat.

"Er, Sherlock?" The rest of his sentence is completely lost when a mass of curly black hair and shiny green eyes quickly pulls back out from underneath the sink. Sherlock's cheeks are spattered with something dark and mud-like, making John consider that he doesn't even want to know what it is.

"You've got slime all over your face." He says, unhelpfully.

Sherlock fiddles with the big yellow plastic screwdriver, narrowing his eyes at his lover. He sighs and the _obvious_ that is not spoken floats around the room, bouncing off of the ceiling and all Mrs. Hudson's brick-a-brack. John frowns, Sherlock shrugs.

John opens his mouth to speak.

Sherlock cuts him off. "I'm helping."

Oh god. Somehow those two words simply do not belong in the vocabulary of one Sherlock Holmes. John gulps. Perhaps Sherlock decided that destroying their kitchen with an experiment in one afternoon wasn't entertaining enough, so he came down here...

John starts to add some more thoughts to the ones know causing his heart to pound out of terror that Mrs. Hudson is going to see this mess and pretty much kill both of them when there is the happy, high-pitched voice from the front room.

"Hi Boys!" Mrs. Hudson calls.

John is trapped. She is going to walk in on this mess and there is absolutely nothing he can do to help it along. He sighs, weary, and drops into one of her dining chairs.

"Hello, dear." Mrs. Hudson pats John on the shoulder before moving over next to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes track her and then dart to one side.

"Hold on." He says and then folds himself back into the cabinet. Mrs. Hudson seems like she wants to say something and John steadies himself for the tirade he knows must be coming soon.

Suddenly, Sherlock pulls out from underneath the sink so hard he thumps the back of his head against the wood. In his hand is a slimy, lumpy piece of _something_. John watches Mrs. Hudson's face and closes his eyes, waiting for it...

Instead of shouting, however, she lets out a happy squeal as she takes the grimy thing from Sherlock's deft fingers, which are incidentally also covered in slime. She leans over and plants a soft kiss right on Sherlock's cheek. She turns away with a brilliant smile at John as she walks past him. John is flabbergasted. "What?" Is the only thing that will come out of his mouth.

Sherlock leans against the sink and smirks, looking positively radiant between the drops of slime and who knows what else. John can't help but smile back.

Mrs. Hudson is back within seconds, holding her hand out towards them to show off the bit of now-shiny jewelry on her finger. "Thank you, Sherlock!" She crows. She turns to John and notices the mystified expression on his face.

"This was my mother's ring, John. I dropped it down the sink some time ago and since Sherlock said he had nothing on for the moment and he found it for me. Isn't it beautiful?" John can't help but grin back at her; anything that makes her happy makes him happy.

He turns back towards Sherlock who is casually observing the way John's eyes follow the trail of pipe that still needs to be returned to its rightful place. Just as John's eyes get to Sherlock's, there is the sound of a phone vibrating.

In Sherlock's pocket.

Naturally.

Sherlock plucks the phone from his pocket, wipes his fingers against his well-tailored black trousers and swipes the screen. "Lestrade, case." He starts to walk past John when John reaches out and lays a palm against his chest.

"Sherlock, mess?" He asks.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side as if considering it. He looks down at the trail of pipe pieces and back to John, then over to a now not-so-smiley landlady. It takes a second, but the smirk is back. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll put my best man on it!" He cries, satisfied at solving yet another problem. He is swiftly gliding through the flat and is out the door before either John or Mrs. Hudson moves. John sighs as the landlady hands him a towel and the screwdriver that Sherlock tossed on the counter.


End file.
